


Stuff

by Isagel



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, OT4, Polyamory, Pregnant Sex, Season/Series 04, Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-16
Updated: 2011-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-21 11:17:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isagel/pseuds/Isagel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Team orgy, team love. Through John's eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stuff

**Author's Note:**

> Set somewhere between "Outcast" and "The Kindred".

John would have thought that with Teyla off active team duty, he would see less of her, but that isn’t the way it turns out. What happens is that he almost sees more of his team. Without Teyla with them in the field, they all gravitate towards her when they’re on base, and more often than not, they end up spending their evenings together, all four of them, just hanging out.

Tonight it’s in Teyla’s quarters, with the second moon hanging low outside the window and scented candles lighting the room, everything a bit softened at the edges.

They’re drinking some European beer with an unpronounceable name that Rodney has taken as tribute from one of the Dutch scientists, and it’s actually really good. They’re none of them anywhere near drunk, but it could be they’re just shy of sober. Teyla, of course, isn’t drinking, but she’s as relaxed as the rest of them, sitting cross-legged at the head of her bed in a meditation pose John is secretly impressed she can still pull off with grace. Ronon is splayed at her feet, leaning on one elbow, his long legs taking up most of the mattress, even though his boots dangle off the end. On the floor below them, Rodney has settled himself on one of Teyla’s throw-pillows, back leaning against the side of the bed, legs stretched out in front of him. Rodney’s feet are level with John’s own, where he’s sitting with his back against the opposite wall, forearms resting on his drawn-up knees, half-empty beer bottle dangling in his hands. None of them has really moved for quite some time, and John, at least, has no intention of going anywhere for the foreseeable future. It’s occurred to him, when he lets himself think about it, that it’s been a long time since he could feel at rest without knowing where his team is, that they’re each of them okay, and nights like this is as good as it gets.

“No, seriously,” Rodney is telling him, gesturing with his bottle for emphasis, “I think Teyla broke your marines. They came out of her stick-fighting class this afternoon looking worse than you do after you’ve insisted you can run as many laps around the south pier as Ronon. Which is going to be the death of you, by the way, any day now, and then I’m going to have to think up something to say at your funeral that makes it sound like you weren’t actually a suicidal maniac with a severe shortage of viable brain cells.”

“Gee, Rodney,” John says, tipping his bottle to Rodney before raising it to his lips. “It’s nice to know you care.”

Rodney glares at him. Behind him, Ronon’s lips twist in a smile.

“It is possible,” Teyla says, “that I was more demanding than usual. I have been feeling…out of balance, lately, and I may not have been as patient with their mistakes as a teacher should be.”

“They can take it,” John says. “And if they can’t, they’re shipping home next time we dial Earth. But you’re doing okay?”

She _looks_ okay, but so much in her life is wrong, so much is changing. They’re all aware that right now it’s never more than ’okay under the circumstances’. Just asking the question freaks him out.

“Yes, John,” she says, giving him a smile that is part warmth, part exasperation, and part something he can’t pinpoint. “You do not need to worry. It is just… The effects of the pregnancy on my body… I am finding them very frustrating at the moment.”

“But you’re sure there’s nothing wrong?” Rodney says, ever the hypochondriac. “Maybe you should have Keller check you out, just in case. You can’t be too careful.”

“I am sure Jennifer does not have a remedy for this I could not think of myself,” Teyla says. “And it is not uncommon for pregnant women to experience a state of increased sexual arousal. I just did not expect it to be so distracting. Nor so constant.”

“ _Arousal?_ “ Rodney splutters. “You mean…? As in…? You actually mean…?”

There’s an absurd moment of comedy when his hands flap and his lips move, but no words come out, which John would appreciate a lot more if he weren’t busy choking on the swig of beer he’s just taken.

“Maybe we could help you out with that,” Ronon says.

John abruptly stops coughing and looks up.

This conversation really isn’t heading the way he thought it was.

The smile Teyla gives Ronon is fond and amused, and one of those that make it clear she’s got you completely figured out.

“That is a generous offer,” she says, “but I do not think it will be necessary.”

“Also…” Rodney says, apparently stunned back into possession of his voice, turning his head to glare up at Ronon. “ _‘We’?_ “

Ronon shrugs, unapologetic.

“We’re a team. We help each other out. Do stuff together.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I must have missed the team memo about how ‘stuff’ now includes having orgies with pregnant women.”

Teyla extends one bare foot and gives Rodney a firm poke to the back of the head.

“The pregnant woman is right here, Rodney, and she does not wish to ‘have orgies’, as you put it. But I believe what Ronon was trying to say is that after all the experiences we have shared, there is already a certain…intimacy between the four of us.”

Her voice dips on the word “intimacy”, shifts into something silken and rough that she can‘t quite contain. John feels it like a burst of heat low in his gut.

“Oh my God!” Rodney says, putting his beer down on the floor and twisting up on his knees so that he can look her squarely in the face. “You do want an orgy.”

And Rodney may be dense with people, but the flashes of insight he does have are rarely any less accurate than the ones about engineering and applied physics. Something surprisingly like a blush rises along Teyla’s cheekbones, and her almost-smile makes her look very young, but she meets Rodney’s gaze steadily.

“I confess, at the moment my body is eager. But I would welcome you each into my bed only as men very dear to my heart.”

“I… You… That’s to say…” Rodney flounders, a flurry of uncontrolled gestures that set the flames of the candles on Teyla‘s nightstand flickering in the draft. But then he clears his throat and his hands fall silent in his lap. “Anything,” he says. “You know I’d do anything.”

Ronon smiles, an approving flash of teeth.

“That’s more like it, McKay.”

They’re silent then, the three of them, just looking at each other. John can feel the air around them thicken, until it vibrates with what they’re apparently about to share. It’s not unlike the hum of coiled-up energy he’s felt from them so many times, the moment before he takes them into battle.

He wants to get up and leave, but his body seems paralyzed, rooted to the spot.

“John?” Teyla says.

And suddenly they’re all looking at him. Teyla’s face is open, softly curious, simply asking the question. Ronon looks expectant, eager, his own odd mix of gentle and ready to strike, and Rodney… Rodney looks nervous, frightened, gaze fixed somewhere in the vicinity of John’s left ear, as if he can’t quite bear to meet his eyes. They’re all waiting for him to respond.

And oh, crap, this really is a team thing. It’s not going to happen unless he’s okay with it, too.

He isn’t okay. Not by a long shot. They’re his team, and he needs them, and this could fuck things up so badly, in so many ways. _He_ could fuck things up, as he always does. They’re already so close; he doesn’t know if he can take any closer. That’s why he’s never… And there’s _four_ of them, for Chrissakes, and one of them is eight months pregnant, and what is he even supposed to do with something like that?

But they want this. They’re his team, and they want this. Teyla even seems to need it, and there are so many things they can’t make right for her, but this they can probably do. They can do this for each other, if he doesn’t hold them back.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay.”

He doesn’t recognize the sound of his own voice at all.

Ronon gives him a huge, big grin, and then he’s moving up the mattress to cup Teyla’s face in his hands, share that smile with her before he touches their lips together. As if all it took to make that happen was for John to let him off some invisible leash he didn’t even know he was holding.

Rodney doesn’t move, though, just keeps looking at John. Less frightened, but with a puzzled crease across his forehead. John focuses on Teyla and Ronon, avoids meeting his gaze. Then Teyla moans, low and _hungry_ , and Rodney turns his head to look at her, too, as if compelled.

Her hands are buried in Ronon’s hair, and she’s tilted her head back, opening up for him, his tongue sliding over her lips, into her mouth. One of his hands is supporting her neck, thumb stroking along the arc of her throat, the other is rubbing up and down her back. She pulls him closer, biting at his lower lip, and he growls, fingers tightening around her.

Even like this, in her pregnant body, she looks small and delicate in his arms, but everything that radiates from her is strength.

“Wow,” Rodney says, breathless with something like awe. “That’s just… You look incredible.”

Ronon doesn’t break the kiss, but he reaches over, reaches down, grabs Rodney by the back of the neck, and more or less _hauls_ him up onto the bed.

“Hey!” Rodney protests. “What are you…?”

But then he’s settled on the mattress, and Teyla is kissing _him_ , and any more objections he might have had melt into a long, wordless groan against her lips. His hands hover in the air for a few seconds, indecisive, before settling on her hips. One of her hands is on his shoulder now, digging in, the other still lost in Ronon’s hair. When Ronon bends to lick her neck, she practically purrs and presses herself forward against both their bodies. Rodney deepens the kiss.

Ronon’s hand hasn’t left Rodney’s neck, and after a while it slips lower, dips beneath his t-shirt to find the bare skin at the small of his back.

Rodney jerks at the contact, breaks away from Teyla to stare at Ronon. Ronon raises his eyes from Teyla’s skin and stares back.

“You got a problem, McKay?”

 _Fuck_ , John thinks. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ He knew this was a bad idea.

“Oh, please,” Rodney says. “Don’t pretend to be stupid.”

And John is still trying to catch up to that - because, wow, it’s probably the nicest thing he’s ever heard Rodney say to Ronon - when Rodney brings his hand up to lace his fingers with Teyla’s among Ronon’s dreads and yanks him in for a kiss.

It’s quick and hard and dirty, and John has to bite his lip against the moan that wants to escape him at the sight.

Teyla doesn’t. She makes a pleased, breathy, humming noise and leans forward to run her lips along Rodney’s neck, nibble at his earlobe. Her breasts brush against his bicep, against the side of his chest, and Rodney turns to her again, with one last, lingering swipe of his tongue across Ronon’s lips. After that, things start to move quickly.

Clothes are lost - Teyla’s velvety dress pulled over her head by four eager hands, to be joined on the floor next to the bed by the men’s shirts; Teyla’s fingers quick and sure on the fastenings of Ronon’s pants, reaching inside to stroke the hard length of his cock while Rodney slips tight leather down and off; Rodney cupping the soft weight of Teyla’s breasts in his palms as Ronon strips him naked - until Teyla is stretched out on her back, Ronon and Rodney flanking her, kissing, licking at her skin, running their hands over her body.

They’re his team, and John has seen them all naked before, even Teyla - brief or not so brief flashes of their skin in the locker room, in the infirmary, sharing quarters off world - but this is different. Their flesh on display, for one another and for him, the slow, sensual intent of their movements, the _sounds_ they make… He’s shifted onto his knees, eyes glued to the three of them, poised between wanting to touch and wanting to run. Either option feels impossible.

Like this, Rodney’s back is to him, and John can see the muscles of his perfect ass flex as he rolls his hips, quite likely rubbing his cock against Teyla’s thigh. John’s hands clench tighter around the bottle he’s still holding, the cold glass a counterpoint to the heat in his groin.

Ronon’s hand strokes down between Teyla’s breasts, over the high dome of her belly. When it turns to slide back up, she grips it in hers and drags it down between her legs. Ronon growls, a feral sound against the side of her breast, but Teyla is silent, focused, planting her feet on the mattress to grind up against the fingers she’s holding in place, chasing the pleasure.

“Christ,” Rodney gasps. “Teyla. Let me…”

And he’s moving down her body, down the bed, until he’s kneeling between her thighs, stroking them with his broad palms, bending his head to put his mouth where Ronon’s hand is. Ronon makes an appreciative sound, and Teyla _whimpers_ \- a soft, high-pitched noise that is somehow both nothing like the warrior John knows and so overwhelmingly _her_ that for a second he can’t breathe - and then both their hands shift, move up to settle in Rodney’s hair, as if anchoring him, anchoring themselves in him, in each other, while he proceeds to make her fall apart.

He can’t _see_ what Rodney does, but he can _hear_ it: the slick, wet noises of his tongue sliding over Teyla’s flesh, the hum of contentment and single-minded eagerness in the back of his throat. It’s so vivid that John imagines he can taste it, some kind of synesthetic transference leaving his mouth bursting with Teyla’s moisture, the salt-bitter-sweet of it tingling on his palate until he has to swallow it down, swallow down the flavor of all these things that he wants. He knows he’s trembling, but he can’t make himself stop.

Teyla’s body surges upwards, into Rodney’s mouth on her pussy, Ronon’s mouth on her breast, asking and receiving, letting everything they’re giving wash over her, wash into her, wave after wave as she arcs against them. She isn’t loud, but her breaths are hurried, stuttering, scattered around moans and half-formed words. Her eyes are closed, but she’s there, in the moment, _with_ them; even from where he’s sitting, John can feel her presence radiate like heat.

He used to be so cold, before he met her, before he met any of them, and now sometimes he’s afraid it could burn him to a cinder, what he feels for them, afraid it could burn _them_ , if he ever let it breach its containment field. Sometimes, these days, it’s like he doesn’t know how to hold it in; all of it, the way he _needs_ them, pulsing white-hot and terrifying just beneath the skin. Some mornings, he wakes up choking in the dark before dawn, and his first thought is of Ronon leaving with his friends from Sateda, of the look in Rodney’s eyes when he wanted to die for his sister, of Teyla and pregnancy and all the things that can go wrong. His heart tries to hammer its way out of his chest on mornings like that, just like its doing now.

But nothing is wrong here tonight. They’re alive and together and Teyla is… God, Teyla is whole and healthy and beautiful, and she’s writhing under her team mates’ touch, blunt nails clawing at Ronon’s shoulder as he sucks her nipple into his mouth and she gives a low, guttural cry and comes, lips parted, body frozen, every muscle clenched in a drawn-out, suspended moment of release. Then she relaxes, shaking, melting into the sheets, tugging Ronon’s head up so that she can kiss him, rough and graceless and necessary, immediate as a gasp for air.

Rodney keeps licking her, until the aftershocks are no longer rippling through her and her grip on him, on Ronon, eases up. He lifts his head to look up at her, at where she and Ronon are lying, lips almost touching, not kissing now, just tasting the breaths from each other’s mouths. They both look down at him.

“Come,” Teyla says, deep and warm and purring with affection, and Rodney does. Crawling up her body - gingerly, awkwardly, because he’s never been what you’d call limber and her shape makes it tricky - until he’s holding himself up above her on straightened arms, carefully not putting any weight on the distended curve of her stomach. She smiles up at him, lifts her leg to drag her calf across the backs of his thighs - a lazy caress, honey-brown against all that ridiculous, breathtaking paleness - but Ronon is the one who kisses him.

Grabs him by the jaw and holds him still while he claims his lips, slow and thorough and ravenous, licking at the corners of his mouth, lapping at the glistening traces of moisture on his chin. Cleaning Teyla’s juices from Rodney‘s face with his tongue. It’s obscene, and shockingly intimate, and John realizes he might actually come in his pants before he’s managed to make a decision on whether he even wants to take part in a bisexual orgy with the members of his team. He’s the first to admit that’s kinda pathetic. But, _Jesus_.

Ronon pulls back, licking his lips, and gives Rodney a satisfied, predatory smirk.

“She tastes good on you,” he says.

Teyla literally giggles.

Rodney makes a face, and even from his lousy angle, John recognizes it as the one that normally means _Oh my God, you’re eating that! How can you be eating that? For all you know it’s made from alien centipedes!_ Of course, that’s the face that’s usually followed by Rodney grabbing a spoon and digging in himself. It’s no surprise when he sways forward, seeking Ronon’s mouth.

The movement drags the head of his cock (thick and wet and flushed dark red and John’s mouth aches, empty, at the sight of it) across the underside of Teyla’s belly, and they both groan at the contact. Teyla’s fingers dig into Rodney’s shoulder and her leg wraps tighter around him, letting her hitch herself up, lifting her hips so that his hard-on rubs against her in just the right spot. She’s biting her lip, head raised from the pillow, intent and demanding and wild, and John knows this Teyla. She’s the woman who makes him scrape himself off the floor so she can have the pleasure of wiping it with him one more time, the one who doesn’t take no for an answer when she can have one more round of fun. When she breathes out Rodney’s name, there’s no doubt at all what she’s asking him for.

“Yes, yes, _God_ , we should, we should definitely…” Rodney babbles, unfocused, breathless words breaking around the distraction of Teyla grinding herself against him. But then a thought seems to come to him, and he stills, suddenly motionless in her arms. “Unless you’d rather want Ronon to. Or, or…”

Teyla’s hand on his cheek stops him before his eyes can turn away from her, turn in John’s direction, but it’s clear what the unspoken ending to that sentence was going to be, and John feels the familiar urge to beat up every single person who’s ever made Rodney think he can’t be wanted, can’t be desired, starting with his sister. _You’re no John Sheppard._ Right. As if John isn’t sitting here useless while Rodney is…

Yeah, punching someone in the face on behalf of Rodney’s insecurities would feel good right about now.

But Teyla knows how to actually handle this.

“Rodney,” she says. Holding his gaze, stroking the crooked corner of his mouth with her thumb. “I do not have a preference.”

John can see the moment when Rodney gets it, the shift in his posture when it hits him what Teyla means. That this is a team he’ll never be picked last for, regardless of what “stuff” they’re doing, that none of them comes first or last. That he is wanted, needed, as much as any of them.

 _Together_ , John thinks. They do stuff together, so why the hell can’t he make himself take part?

Ronon must see the moment, too, because he speaks up a heartbeat later.

“Go for it, McKay,” he says. “I want to watch.”

Thirty seconds earlier, Rodney might have taken that as an offer made out of pity, but now it just sounds like what it is, straightforward as most everything about Ronon.

“Hah!” Rodney says, looking over at him. “I always knew you were a kinky bastard behind that whole stoic exterior thing.”

Teyla laughs again, a soft, quick chuckle against Rodney’s ear.

“Then let us give him something to look at,” she says, squeezing Rodney between her thighs for emphasis.

“Oooh,” Rodney moans. “We…we should really do that… Yes. But not like this, obviously. What with…” He shifts back on his knees, gesturing vaguely in the direction of Teyla’s belly. “Really not a good angle. Here, let me…”

And then he’s _rearranging_ them. Like they’re crystals in a tray and he knows exactly where the pieces fit, manhandling Ronon and guiding Teyla with gentler hands, and the two of them might be exchanging glances of fond amusement over his head, but they let him take the lead, no objections. They’re used to trusting the visions in his mind, they all are, and this… From where John is sitting, this is one hell of a gorgeous vision.

They end up with Ronon sitting back against the wall, legs outstretched, Teyla straddling his thighs. Rodney settles behind her, Ronon’s legs between his own, stroking the sweat-dampened strands of her hair aside to kiss the nape of her neck, while Ronon cups her face in his hands and nips at her lips. She’s between them, bracketed by them, the two of them bookends holding her up, her weight resting in Rodney’s lap, on Ronon’s muscled chest where she’s leaning her hands, safe from ever falling.

“Rodney,” she says. “Now.”

And she lifts her hips and Rodney guides his cock to where she wants it and says, “Yes. Come on,” and she sinks down around him, taking it all in one long, smooth movement that makes them all gasp, John included.

“God,” Rodney says. “ _Teyla_.”

There’s reverence in his voice, and so much emotion.

Teyla twists her neck to look at him, rolling her hips to feel him, Ronon’s hands sliding down to weigh the heavy fullness of her breasts. When she turns her head, John sees her face clearly for the first time since this started. She looks happy.

He can’t remember when he last saw her happy, but in this moment, she is.

 _They did that_ , he thinks. _My team,_ and the pride he feels is as overwhelming as the love.

He isn’t aware of getting to his feet until he’s standing by the bed, setting his beer bottle down among the candles on the nightstand, placing one knee on the mattress and letting Teyla reach for him. Letting himself reach for her.

Her hair is soft in his hands, the curve of her skull solid beneath it, her hand on his cheek pulling him in, and they’re kissing. Warm and slow and simple, seeping through him until he knows his heart isn’t racing with fear, until Teyla shifts back to breathe, her forehead pressed against his.

“John,” she says, and the happiness is in her voice now, he doesn’t have to open his eyes to see her face. “I knew you would come to us, where you belong. If we did not startle you, you would step past your fear and come.”

He has a sudden flash of himself as one of the colts in his father’s paddock, skittish and easily spooked, and his cheeks heat with embarrassment, because, man, how‘s that for pathetic?

Rodney apparently has a similar thought.

“Yesyesyes,” he says. “I’ll try not to make any sudden movements. Can we get him naked now? He’s making me feel underdressed.”

John nearly chokes - because, _Jesus Christ_ \- but when he lifts his head from Teyla’s, Rodney’s face is right there behind hers and he doesn’t think, just goes with it.

“You look dressed just right to me, McKay,” he says, and sees Rodney’s eyes go wide before John’s lips touch his.

Maybe he’s expecting resistance, because he’s coming in hard, shifting to hold Rodney to him with a hand firm on the back of his neck, pushing his tongue along the thin line of Rodney’s mouth. But Rodney opens up for him, not a heartbeat of hesitation, as if he’s been _waiting_ for this, and John has so much momentum - years of it - that all he can do is fall.

It’s all right, though, it’s okay, because Rodney has him, Rodney is kissing him back, letting John drown in him, and he whimpers into Rodney’s mouth, quivers under Rodney’s fingers stroking up his side, but it’s all right, because Teyla is nuzzling into the crook of his neck, whispering his name against the skin beneath the collar of his shirt, and Ronon’s hand is warm and heavy on his back, and they’ve all got him, they’re all there. He’s with them.

He’s still frightened, though, scared to death, just for a second, as the kiss breaks and he pulls back to look Rodney in the eye. But Rodney looks back, unwavering, a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. Nervous, but not freaking out. John squeezes his neck, and Rodney nods; just that, a quick inclination of his head, but it makes John’s heart flip over in his chest. Rodney’s smile grows wider.

“My turn, Sheppard,” Ronon says, and before he can reply, he’s being yanked back by a large hand fisted in his shirt.

He lets himself be pulled, turned, landing with one hand braced against the wall, the other brushing Teyla’s on Ronon’s chest. Face to face.

“Hey there, buddy,” he says. Mostly for lack of anything intelligent to say, but it comes out low and suggestive, and the tip of Ronon’s tongue slips out to wet his lips.

“Hey,” Ronon echoes, and John knows that gleam of challenge in his eyes, answers it with a grin. This is _on_.

He makes the kiss rough and dirty, all teasing tongue and sharp teeth, and Ronon gives as good as he gets. When John flicks his thumb over the hardened point of Ronon’s nipple, Ronon growls into his mouth, tilting his head back even as he bites at John’s tongue. Aggressive-submissive, and this is the game they always play, John knows it, even in this new form, knows instinctively to drag his lips through the raspy curls of Ronon’s beard down to his neck, scrape his teeth over his exposed jugular. He’s more than half expecting the way that makes Ronon press up against him, clutch hard on his shirt, but it still makes his cock jerk in his pants. Behind him, he can hear Teyla and Rodney moving, the flesh-on-flesh sounds of their fucking. He licks at Ronon’s throat, tip of his tongue across the trail from his teeth, shifting his weight so that Ronon can strip his shirt off without him falling over.

“Finally with the naked,” Rodney says, and maybe his voice is supposed to be sharp, but it’s shaking with pleasure, and John can’t look in his direction, not yet, or he’ll never actually get to the naked part.

He has to back off the bed to get the rest of his clothes off, and already even that little bit of distance feels like too much. But Ronon’s hand follows him, strokes up his bare chest as he pulls his t-shirt over his head, back down again while he drops it on the floor and toes off his boots. All the way down to fondle his cock through his BDUs. The sound John makes at the touch is light-years from dignified.

Ronon squeezes him gently, then takes his hand away so that John can get his pants off. They’re already wet through at the front.

Ronon’s fingers close on his naked hip, urging him back to bed, but his eyes have drifted away, and John can’t help but follow the line of his gaze.

“Just look at them, Sheppard,” Ronon says, and his tone makes it clear that he wasn’t kidding about wanting to watch. Not that John can blame him.

Teyla is working herself on Rodney’s cock, a slow, steady roll of her hips, her thighs clenching and releasing as she rises and falls, rises and falls. Rodney’s hands are on her breasts, lightly squeezing them, and her body is gilded with a thin sheen of sweat, glistening in the warm light. The expression on her face is blissed out, transported, as if she’s lost in sensation. It’s possible that John has never seen her more beautiful, but then he’s thought that before, will likely think it again, many times over, in situations he can’t even imagine here and now. He certainly would never have imagined this.

Behind her, Rodney’s face is flushed, screwed tight with the effort not to come, not to give her less than he can. Every time she sinks down on him, he moves in counterpoint, thrusting up into her. Every time, their breathing shifts, both of them gasping, trembling. John slips back onto the bed, unable to resist the need to touch.

Ronon gets there first, though, stroking Teyla’s hair back, leaning forward to kiss her lips. She moans and arcs into it, riding Rodney faster. When her belly slides against Ronon’s cock, she reaches down for it, wraps her fingers around it. Ronon cants his hips into her grip, but she’s the one who suddenly seems only a hair’s breadth from coming. John runs his hand up her thigh, up between her legs. She’s so wet, so perfect, his fingers slipping through soaked curls, and then he finds the spot, her clit hard and swollen under his fingertips. Beneath her flesh, he can feel Rodney’s cock, moving in and out, filling her. He presses in, rubs when she starts to shake.

“That’s it,” he says, soft into her ear. “That’s it, let go for us. Come on, Teyla, show us how good it feels.”

Firm, circular movements on her clit, and she slams down hard on Rodney’s cock, forcing it as deep as it will go, her pussy seizing around it, under John’s fingers, and this time she is loud, screaming with it, a raw, animal howl that John could swear is making the windows rattle.

“Fuck,” Rodney breathes. “Teyla.” And he’s coming, too, pushing up into her, biting his lips to keep the sounds in, but John bends forward, coaxes Rodney’s mouth open with his tongue, and it’s not quite kissing, but Rodney’s moans fall into his mouth and he can taste them, drink them, while he strokes Teyla all the way down.

When she stops shuddering, sinking back to lean against Rodney’s chest, John lets his fingers stray down through her folds, across the place where Rodney’s softening cock still vanishes into her, and cups Rodney’s balls in his hand. Rodney’s whole body jerks, one last wave of orgasm wrenched from him, and Teyla moans, probably feeling it inside her. John brushes his thumb over her clit one more time as he pulls his hand away, knuckles grazing Ronon’s thigh, swipes his tongue over Rodney’s lips.

He feels giddy with their pleasure, floating on some kind of contact high. Not quite caring when or how or even if he’ll get to come himself, as long as they’re all here, as long as they share this with him. He knows there’s nothing sane about the way he needs them, but maybe it’s all right for him to have this, to be this close, just for a while.

Rodney holds his gaze for a second after they part, tilts his head as if about to say something, and John’s chest tightens, because doing stuff is one thing, putting words on it is another. But then Rodney’s eyes flicker away, drawn by something else, and what he does say, looking over Teyla’s shoulder, isn’t at all what was on his face a moment before.

“Okay, yes, right. Those things I said before, about watching, and kinks, and, yes, seriously, I take it all back. No more mocking. This is me, embracing the voyeurism, and… Oh, do that again, Teyla, that looks… Yeah.”

It looks, John’s body supplies as he turns to see, hot enough to make his balls ache.

Ronon’s cock is still in Teyla’s hand, has been there all along, and now that she’s sitting up straight, leaning back on Rodney, she has full access to it. All the room she needs to tend to it properly, stroking him with slow, deliberate caresses that have him fisting his hands in the sheets. Her hand looks small, almost dainty, wrapped around the massive length of his erection, but they’ve all felt the strength of those elegant fingers on their own bodies, they’ve all had the bruises to prove it, and when she twists her grip and squeezes tight on the down-stroke, Ronon isn‘t the only one who catches his breath. He tries to arc off the bed, but with the combined weight of Teyla and Rodney settled on his thighs, he’s pinned down, writhing into her touch but unable to really thrust up against it. Hers to play with. But then they all are.

There has never been anything about Ronon that John has not found beautiful, and he is as stunningly gorgeous laid out like this as anyone would expect. It’s different, though, the reality of it, the details - the way the cut muscles of his stomach tremble when Teyla rubs her palm over the head of his cock; the way drops of sweat trickle down his torso to pool at his groin until the thick, dark curls there are glistening with it; the way he stays quiet, holding his lower lip between his teeth and how terribly young that makes him look, how vulnerable. John isn’t expecting his own reaction, the sudden surge of emotion that makes him reach out his hand and grab hold of Ronon’s, the odd lump in his throat when Ronon lets go of the crumpled sheet and latches on to him instead. He isn’t expecting it at all, but it feels right.

“John,” Teyla says, and he looks up from where her left hand is now massaging Ronon’s balls to meet her eyes. “Do you wish to assist me?”

The tiny quirk of a smile on her lips is mischievous, playful, positively wicked, and, damn, he’s glad this woman is on his side, because he’d never last five minutes as her enemy.

He lets his own smile mirror hers, and says,

“Yeah. Don‘t mind if I do.”

“Sheppard,” Ronon says, and there’s caution in his voice, warning, but it’s edged with anticipation.

John bends down and sucks the head of his cock into his mouth.

When Ronon says his name again, it’s with astonishment, with sharp need cutting into desperation. When John laps at the tip of his erection, pushing the foreskin back with his tongue, Ronon’s fingers clench around his so hard he can feel the crackle of his joints. He squeezes back, and goes down for real.

His mouth stretched wide, stretching further, until Ronon is filling him, brushing against the back of his throat, and his lips meet Teyla’s fingers where her hand is wrapped around the base of the shaft.

“God,” Rodney breathes, awed and shaky, and there’s a hand on the back of his neck, Rodney’s hand, not pushing or guiding but simply holding him, keeping him steady.

He closes his eyes and lets himself just _be_ , right there, like this, until he has no choice but to come up for air.

He’s whimpering when he slides back down, hungry and eager and not caring, taking and giving and losing himself in it, tasting the heat and salt and strength of Ronon on his tongue, feeling him ride the pleasure, shiver after shiver. He leans his forearm over Ronon’s thighs, his fingers closing over Teyla’s knee on the other side. Held and holding, and no, he isn’t lost, he’s found, finding, his mouth and Teyla’s hand rising and falling in perfect rhythm around Ronon’s cock, Rodney’s thumb stroking the throbbing pulse beat in his neck. The four of them, together.

He hears, senses, more than sees, when Rodney’s other hand slips down between Teyla’s legs, is aware down to the marrow in his bones of the way she melts into it, pouring herself into that touch on her clit, twisting her hips and reaching for it, hand stuttering on Ronon’s shaft, and then the deep, heady smell of her juices slams fresh into his nostrils as she arcs over the edge, falling softly into another climax.

Ronon’s entire body shakes, and John knows he’s watching her, seeing her face as she comes, and he sucks harder, drags the flat of his tongue across the thick vein on Ronon’s cock, tilts his head at a stupid angle to get deeper, take just that little bit more. Ronon makes a noise half-way between roar and keening and thumps their joined hands against the mattress over and over as his cock jerks in John’s mouth, spilling into his throat, and John swallows and swallows and tries to breathe, until he has every last drop and Ronon is soft on his tongue and there’s a tug on his hand pulling him away. Pulling him up into Ronon’s arms and he’s being kissed hard enough to bruise before he has time to miss the cock in his mouth.

It’s possible that he loses time, wrapped in the buzz of Ronon’s post-orgasmic high, the increasing drive of his own arousal, because it seems to him like only seconds have passed when Teyla speaks, but her tone suggests otherwise.

“You are both very pleasing to look at, even more so together,” she says, amused, indulgent, “but I am afraid I cannot sit like this any longer, and you are taking up the entire width of the bed.”

“Oh, thank God!” Rodney says. “That sounds so much better coming from the pregnant woman.”

There’s the sound of a slap on naked flesh, and Rodney goes, “Hey! What? My knees are killing me, here, it’s a legitimate complaint,” but John is too busy scooting over to make room - how the hell did he end up sprawled across the mattress like this? - to see who does the hitting. It’s all right, though, because he catches Ronon’s bark of laughter, the warmth in it, the gentle touch of Teyla’s hand to Rodney’s cheek as he helps her down, looking a bit flustered, but not letting go until she’s stretched out next to Ronon, her head safely on his shoulder. They’re all right, together.

Teyla makes a contented noise and rubs her cheek against Ronon’s collar bone, drapes one leg over his and nestles close until she’s lying half on top of him. Then she reaches back and finds John’s hand, pulls his arm around her.

She seems so languid and peaceful, and suddenly John feels shy, hesitant to press his own erect body against hers. He bites his lip, stays frozen in place.

“Oh, for…“ Rodney says. “Sheppard, we already covered the part where you’re an emotionally challenged dimwit with a deep-seated irrational fear of human contact. We’re not doing that again. Get a grip on yourself and move over.”

It’s the absolute, I-can’t-believe-what-an-idiot-you-are _Rodney-ness_ of the speech as much as the non-too-gentle shove to the center of his back that brings John forward, across those inches of mattress and rumpled sheets, up against Teyla’s warmth. But then he’s there, his whole body stretched along her back, his face buried in the reddish-brown mess of her hair, in the smell of her, his cock flush against the soft curve of her ass. The contact makes him gasp, his hips moving to thrust against her before he knows what he’s doing, and she gives the most decadent sigh, pushing back against him. Behind him, the mattress dips as Rodney settles in, spooned around John’s body as he is spooned around Teyla’s, his hand cupping John’s shoulder.

“Hmmm, yes,” Teyla says, squeezing John’s hand where she holds it against her belly. “This is much better.” Her hips move again, her ass grinding against John’s hard-on in a way that is more than suggestive. “Although it could be better still.”

She shifts, and moans a little, and Ronon says her name like a caress, and John’s pretty sure that means she’s got her pussy pressed wet against his hip, rubbing against him as she rubs her backside against John. She drags her thigh higher up Ronon’s body, spreading her legs a little more, and pushes John’s hand downwards.

“Please,” she says, though it’s a request, a soft demand, and not a plea.

John is the one who’s losing it. But…

“You’re sure?” he asks, hand clenching at her hipbone. “I mean, you already, with Rodney, and you probably shouldn’t overdo things and…”

There’s fear inside him, closing in on panic, like that day when she told them about being pregnant. His pulse is speeding out of control.

Teyla turns around, just enough to look him in the eye. Her gaze is open and fearless and tender and completely out of patience. He knows, in a vivid flash of certainty, that if she weren’t quite this pregnant, she’d be flipping them over right now, slamming him onto his back so she could hold him down and take what she wants without having to talk him out of his misplaced objections. The thought pulls his balls up tight with yearning.

“John,” she says. “You are not going to break me.”

For the first time, he believes her.

“Yeah,” he says, voice no more than a whisper. “Yeah, I know.”

She brushes a kiss across his lips, oddly chaste under the circumstances, and smiles at him before she turns away again. The next grind of her body tells him to get on with it.

He shifts against her, letting his cock slide up between her legs, the dripping heat of her, the slippery softness, almost too good to take. When he presses forward, the length of him stroking along her folds, the head of his cock bumps against Ronon’s thigh. His entire body shivers, and he starts to pull his hand away from Teyla’s, not really wanting to, but needing it to guide himself, to get himself where he…

“No, here,” Rodney says, sitting up behind him, letting go of his shoulder. “Let me.”

And Rodney’s hand is around his cock, firm but gentle, and he nearly comes right there, with the sound of Rodney’s breath hitching above him and the feel of those fingers on his skin, stroking him, just once, base to tip and back again, as if learning the shape of him. He very nearly comes, but somehow he doesn’t, and then Rodney is guiding the leaking head of his erection to Teyla’s opening, showing him where he should be, and there are a thousand images flickering through his mind, of Rodney and _controlchairspuddlejumpersancientwarshipsatomicweaponszeropointmodulesdhds_ , and he thinks - ridiculously - _Of course he knows how the pieces fit_. Except it doesn’t feel ridiculous at all, and Teyla has his hand in hers and John is pushing into her, smooth and slick and easy, so much perfect heat closing around him, and Rodney’s fingers stay with them, touching the place where they’re joined, until John is all the way inside.

Buried balls-deep in Teyla’s body, and for a moment he just rests there, letting the fact of it sink into him, fill him up. Then Teyla tightens her pussy around him, purring with something that is both approval and impatience, and the need to move is in every fiber of his being, the need to fuck her, the way she wants him to. He lets it take him.

Lying like this, he has very little in the way of leverage, but he doesn’t miss it. He doesn’t need fast or hard or rough, not here and now. He needs the soft warmth of Teyla wrapped in his arms, the liquid, solid strength of her close around him, the slow, effortless in-and-out slide of his cock inside her with each small thrust of his hips. Barely moving, moving just enough. The caramel curve where her neck meets her shoulder, the moan and the shiver when he kisses her there, all of it simple and quiet and everything that he wants.

Except that’s not true. He wants more, and somehow, through some miracle he doesn’t understand, there _is_ more.

There’s Rodney, palming his hip, licking at the lobe of his ear, and, God, it’s too soon for Rodney to get hard again, but his cock is sure as hell making an effort, jerking against John’s ass, slipping not quite soft along his crack, still sticky with Teyla’s juices. And John groans and rubs himself against it and Rodney tightens his grip on him, presses closer, breathes words ragged in his ear.

“Yesyes, that, of course you can have that. Any way you want, you idiot. Preferably starting sometime tonight.” And John didn’t even know he was asking, but the answer coils like live wire somewhere deep in his gut and his cock presses harder into Teyla’s heat and she gasps and Rodney adds, “I bet Teyla and Ronon would love to watch.”

That shouldn’t be so hot, and John tries to object on pure principle, but then there is Ronon, Ronon’s hand stroking up his shoulder, heavy and reassuring, and the deep, matter-of-fact tenderness of Ronon’s voice.

“Sure would,” he says, and Teyla makes a sound of agreement, pulling John’s arm closer around her.

He shuts his eyes and feels them, all of them, his place among them, and he’s still moving, because he couldn’t stop if he wanted to, because Teyla wouldn’t let him stop, and they’re both closing in on the edge. Almost there, her body quivering around him, almost ready to fall, and he can feel Ronon pressing his thigh firm against her pussy, again and again, giving her that extra stimulation, and she makes this gorgeous noise, every time, and John is going to break, is going to shatter because it’s all too much, all of this, all of them. He wasn’t made to take it.

But there’s more, there’s one more thing, because then he feels something stir, a brush of movement under his hand, the hand Teyla is holding, spread against her belly. One more thing, one more _person_ , and his heart skips in his chest as Teyla’s fingers tighten on his. And he’s scared, he’s so scared, but this is his _team_ , and there’s an unborn baby, _their_ baby, stirring beneath his palm, and it’s too much, all of it, but they’re going to make it through. They always make it through. Together.

Nothing else is acceptable.

So he holds Teyla tighter, and buries his face in her neck, and when she comes, he feels the spike in her pulse beat under his lips, vivid and alive, a fraction of a second before she convulses around him. And he’s with her, he’s right there, falling, too, into the wet-tight-yielding-unbreakable _force_ of her, and she’s writhing, moaning in his arms, and he’s spilling himself inside her, his throat seizing up with a noise he can’t quite make, and Ronon’s arms are around them both, and Rodney is talking in his ear, telling him _yes_ , telling him _like this_ , telling him _it’s all right_. And it is, he knows it is, and he never wants the moment to come apart.

Afterwards, lying there, all of them wrapped around each other in the too small bed, too boneless and inexplicably comfortable to move, Rodney lifts his head from John’s shoulder and says,

“You know I never say this, I hate to say this, but Ronon, you were right.”

“Oh, wow,” John says, making a display of looking up and inspecting the ceiling. “I thought for a second there the sky was gonna fall on us, but I guess we’re okay.”

Ronon’s grin is silent, but John can somehow feel it as clearly as he can hear the shimmering sound of Teyla’s laughter. Rodney smacks him on the hip.

“I can give credit where credit is due. It’s not my fault that most people are cretins and shouldn’t get any.”

“But Ronon should?”

“Yes, because, and this is the last time I’m saying this, so be sure to commit the moment to memory, Ronon was right. This is definitely the kind of stuff we should be doing together. As often as humanly possible.”

“Told you, McKay,” Ronon says. “You shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss my ideas.”

“It was a very good idea,” Teyla agrees, her fingers toying with the dark hairs on Ronon’s chest. “And you have all been most helpful.”

She sounds at once teasingly ironic and like a cat who’s had the entire bowl of cream and knows there’s more where that came from, just as soon as she can be bothered to move. And beneath all that, there’s so much gentle, unwavering emotion that John has to close his eyes against it, just for a second.

“Yeah,” he says. “As a team activity, this kinda does beat running from Wraith.”

It isn’t exactly a declaration of love, but he could never find the words for what he really wants to say. And perhaps that’s all right, perhaps these people hear it, anyway.

“Seriously,” Rodney says. “Emotionally challenged _dimwit_.”

And he’s rolling his eyes, that’s obvious, but his fingers are stroking patterns up and down John’s thigh, tender and affectionate.

“Yeah,” Ronon says, “but he’s team. I guess we’ll have to put up with him.”

“Hey!” John protests. “I could be taking offence, here.”

“But you are not,” Teyla says, squeezing his hand. “And you are here.”

He is.

He really is.

“Yeah,” he says, squeezing back. “Looks like I am.”

There’s a stupid grin spreading over his face.

“Always stating the obvious,” Rodney says, lips warm against his skin, breath so close it must be seeping through his pores into his bloodstream. “Sign of an inferior mind.”

John is about to retort when Ronon leans across Teyla and kisses him.

They’re a team. They hear each other loud and clear.

All he has to do is let himself kiss back.


End file.
